


Unseen Parallels

by Resoan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Spoilers, post Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 09:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3114380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Inquisition. Solas has left Skyhold, and is heading for parts unknown - until he encounters another apostate. Solas+Anders meeting and conversation, with a smidgen of Hawke at the end. Featuring a romanced!Solas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unseen Parallels

He knew it would be hard, though he hadn't anticipated just _how_ hard; walking away from Skyhold, from the easy camaraderie he'd found amidst its many denizens, but worst of all, from her. Even now, the thoughts stung, as readily as a hive of hornets converging on him simultaneously. Some moments, it took every ounce of effort he possessed not to remember, not to hear the falter in her tone, the barest slip of her fingertips against his arm; even the Fade and his dreams could offer no safe haven from her: she'd consumed him, and his heart physically _ached_ to think at what she might now think of him, of the pain she herself might have endured.

The staff in his hand was cold, a constant reminder of the solidity and ever-present nature of the real world around him, and even as biting wind slipped easily through the fabric of the scarf he'd pulled out of his knapsack, he managed to focus on it: focus on the physical discomfort as his bare feet dug into the light snow cover and not on the pain that would undoubtedly cripple him if he gave it time to overcome him – it very nearly had more times than he wished to admit already. Even in slumber, her dreams called to him, enticed him, and only with a meticulous picking apart of the Fade had he lessened the siren's call; even then, he could still hear it: a far-off song at the very edge of consciousness and even unconsciousness, undoubtedly similar to what drove the darkspawn to seek out the Old Gods in their chthonic prisons deep in the belly of the earth.

Clear, blue eyes widened just slightly against the wind as Solas chanced to look up, his hands wrapped tightly around his stave, even if now it acted as more a walking stick; flickers of firelight caught his attention first and foremost, and though he wasn't aware of any cairns in the nearby vicinity, he couldn't deny the warmth would be inviting, and should the occupant of the fire not wish to be hospitable, well, there were ways of working around that. His right hand flexed as it drew back to his side, fingertips weaving with a slight thrum of magic as if to reassure himself it was still at his beck and call, and with an inhalation marred only by the icy quality of the air, he changed the angle of his path and headed for the firelight.

The area was not a cave however shallow as Solas might have earlier guessed, but rather an encampment clear of snow only because of the thick canopy overheard. Pine needles dotted the grey landscape in pale greens, and had Solas not seen the hooded figure wave a hand over the fire and watch it jump back to life, he would have felt the lyrium in the other's veins: could feel the push and pull, though something was decidedly...off. Solas's eyebrows drew together, though before he could glean more information, the hooded man had noticed his presence and was standing, the hood of his cloak falling back to reveal dirty blond hair which likely hadn't seen a good washing in a couple weeks. It was, however, mostly tied back, with only a few strands falling over his forehead and nearly in front of his light brown eyes.

“Who are you? What do you want?” The questions were uttered in quick succession, suspicious though not unduly, and Solas didn't pretend not to see the way the man's eyes drifted to his stave before returning to his face.

“I am the same as you: a lone apostate, simply seeking safe refuge from the storm.” Solas offered as benign a smile as he could muster, though it was a farce; smiles hurt, he'd discovered, though given what he was seeking to do, perhaps it wasn't something he should have allowed himself in the first place.

His words had given the man pause; the hostility had mostly drained from him, and after a few moments of quiet contemplation, the blond nodded before gesturing wordlessly towards the fire. Solas's shoulders loosened, somehow having tightened from the mere idea that there would be an altercation between the pair of them, though he inclined his head gratefully and took a seat across from the blond, his palms sliding against themselves in an attempt to bring warmth back to them. He didn't need to look up to know the other apostate was looking over at him, brown eyes gauging and curious, though he said nothing; Solas had no right to pry when he couldn't reciprocate – it was a realization he'd made belatedly, and he must have let out an ironic, little chuckle if the way the other man tensed across from him was any indication.

For a long while, there was simply silence between them; it was neither awkward nor companionable: the type strangers shared when forced to cohabitate or share proximity. The wind howled between the trees, ruffled dead leaves clinging pointlessly to equally dead tree limbs, and Solas had to force away a shudder that raked down his spine; it had been cold at Skyhold, cold in snowy Emprise du Lion, but this cold was biting: fangs sinking deep until they found his bones and settled in the marrows like a sickness he would never be rid of. A distraction, in hindsight was preferable: preferable to the damnable, bitter cold, to the hollow feeling taking up most of the space in his chest, occupying his thoughts with visions and phantasms of things he yearned for with a keeness that surprised him in how painful it felt...and he felt almost grateful when the younger man spoke up.

“I'm guessing you're not with the former Circle mages,” Anders began, and the corners of Solas's lips just barely turned upwards – he was rather perceptive, wasn't he? “And yet you're not Dalish either,” Anders seemed to add more to himself than to Solas. “Maybe that's for the better. Most Dalish mages I've met were...a bit crazy.” Anders frowned then, as if remembering something unpleasant, and Solas couldn't begin to guess what it might have been, though he did chuckle – perhaps Varric's nickname wasn't so ironic as he believed.

“I am neither from a Circle, nor am I Dalish,” Solas confessed, and Anders's eyebrows drew together again, confusion written in the lines of his face.

“Then where did you learn your magic?” Anders asked, disbelieving.

“Is it so hard to believe that apostates do live outside of the Circle, outside of the _Dalish_?” It was effortless to evade Anders's actual question, and just as Solas had anticipated, the man instead leaned just slightly back, clearly contemplative and questioning his own preconceptions.

“Then...I suppose I'm envious,” Anders admitted quietly, eyes falling back to the fire. The smile, slight as it was, fell from Solas's lips then; he'd heard horrific tales of the Circle mages: of their poor treatment by the templars, of the fear-mongering where demons and spirits were concerned, about the _Harrowings_. He couldn't even begin to imagine how it had been for this man, for all the mages – no matter what Vivienne decried as the necessary for the world and its sanity.

It was then that Solas felt a ripple in the Fade: a slight discrepancy between when he perceived to be true and what actually was, and it all centered on the man sitting across from him, brown eyes still steadfastly gazing up on the fire. “Do not envy me,” Solas finally informed him. “For all my lack of experience with your Circles, I have not led...so idyllic a life you likely envision.” The ripple spread then: a crackle, a _sizzle_ even across his skin, and only then did Solas recognize it for what it was; blue eyes snapped upwards to catch Anders's gaze. The man...possessed a spirit, or perhaps was possessed by one if he were more inclined to agree with the Chantry on the nature of the denizens of the Fade.

“No? Were you _bound_ by blood magic to the templars? Forced to fight a demon inside your _mind_ to prove your resilience and _right_ to _live_ as a mage? Caught seven times and dragged back, awaiting a punishment that worsened until I finally wasn't able to see the light of _day_ or seek the company of another person for an entire _year_?” Anders's tone had become progressively darker, and Solas blinked when a flash of brilliant blue lit up the man's eyes.

 _Fool._ This was not a contest of whose life was worse, and even if it were, Solas was hardly about to divulge all he'd suffered and endured on behalf of his people who very likely wouldn't even appreciate the effort he was extending. “I was not,” Solas eventually murmured, perhaps slightly humbled by all the man had endured, though part of him was cynical all the same.

“At least no other mage will be forced to go through all I did,” Anders found himself saying, fingertips trembling as his hand balled into a loose fist. “The Inquisitor freed them, and the new Divine has stripped away the shackles for good.” This seemed to appease him, even brought a small albeit weary smile to his lips, though Solas's stomach sank and he looked away, lost in thought.

“The Inquisitor herself was a mage,” Solas almost startled himself with the sound of his own voice, and though a livid voice inside his head roared at him to be silent, he persisted. “It is understandable she would champion the cause of mages, is it not?”

“You... _knew_ the Inquisitor?” Anders asked, head tilting slightly in disbelief.

“It seems like ages past now, but yes. We were companions, for a time.” His feet sank just a little deeper into the ground, hands folding together just past his knees; talking about her wasn't as difficult as he anticipated, though it did drag back memories he'd done his best to bury – it was becoming increasingly obvious they would never stay away, no matter what tactics he used to combat them.

“Then...perhaps you knew one of _my_ former companions. I don't imagine he claims to know me any longer, not after everything that's happened, but Varric was good to me. Looked out for me, and I appreciate his efforts even now.”

“Ah, Serah Tethras. Yes, he and I traveled together as well,” Solas replied, lips slipping easily into a smile. “His proclivity for nicknames persists even now.” Of all the Inquisitor's companions, Varric had been one of the most agreeable, and when his plagued mind was free of the Inquisitor's influence, he ofttimes wished for the familiar company of the Seeker, or Varric, or Cole even with the probing, however unintentional it seemed to be.

“Oh?” Anders had lifted an eyebrow then, his smile shaving off perhaps a decade of his age. “And just what did he call you?”

Quiet, subdued laughter slipped from Solas's lips despite himself; “Chuckles, though I make no claim to the moniker now.”

“Hah,” Anders huffed out a laugh. “You _do_ seem the type to laugh at inopportune moments.” It was mad, utterly foreign and _strange_ , though the pair dissolved into laughter; it was an easy cover: laughter to smother the overwhelming, _heart-rendering_ depression the crushed their hearts.

There was a lull in the conversation then, a thoughtful silence that was almost companionable; with a quick glance over at Anders, Solas made the final connection – the one that said that Anders had traveled with Varric, with Hawke, had been in Kirkwall...and had destroyed the city's Chantry and helped ignite a war between mages and templars. He hadn't done it alone, however, though Solas would be the last to criticize – at least Anders's gambit had yielded positive results by the end.

“Do you regret it?” At first, Solas hadn't even been aware he'd spoken, though the unadulterated fear in Anders's eyes assured him he had, though he had been careful to keep his tone even and non-judgmental, not that it seemed to matter. “I can sense the spirit within you, and Varric has not minced words on the matter of what transpired in Kirkwall before the Breach.”

Anders took a while to digest all that Solas said, processed disbelief and anger and fear in equal measure, though, eventually, he shook his head. “I tortured myself for _years_ , trying to find alternate means to help mages, to free them from the Circle and the templars, but nothing worked. Even with Hawke's help, I could only do so much until...until Justice showed me another way.” It was apparent that guilt weighed on Anders's mind, though he'd at least been able to forgive himself some of it – it was doubtful he would ever fully be rid of it: Solas could attest to that from years, _millenia_ even, of experience.

Solas nodded at Anders's words, understanding them better than the other mage would likely ever know. “Sometimes, one must take regrettable actions to realize a world they desire.” His expression was grim, though instead of looking contemplative as Solas might have expected, Anders peered at him, eyebrows drawn together curiously; perhaps he'd given too much of himself away – it was becoming a problem, truly. He'd very nearly revealed himself to the Inquisitor, and the same, livid voice from earlier echoed inside his skull: warning him, looming and ominous and omnipresent.

Just as Anders's lips parted, presumably to ask Solas something further, another traipsed towards the fire, black hair flecked with flakes of snow and curiosity in her bright, blue eyes as they glossed over him – she likely recognized him from their fore into the Fade at Adamant, though he sincerely doubted she remembered much more than his name, if even that. “I see we have a guest to entertain this evening,” Hawke remarked, her arms laden with firewood; her smile was sharp, amused and ironic, and Anders was already on his feet – ready to help in whatever capacity was necessary, and Solas looked away at the clearly-intimate way the pair acted around the other.

Something white-hot bubbled just beneath the surface of his skin, prickly and unpleasant and refusing to be ignored; it tugged at his thoughts, dangerous and intoxicating and provocative: if Anders could find happiness after everything, then why could _he_ not do the same?


End file.
